


2:37

by AngelsAvengeMe



Series: Moments [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Hospitals, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsAvengeMe/pseuds/AngelsAvengeMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond gets a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2:37

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read it here, at my [Tumblr](http://angelsavengeme.tumblr.com/post/36568315100/2-37).

The call had come at 2:37 in the morning.

 

He had been trying to sleep, only reaching a state halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Hypnagogia. He should know.

 

Nothing on Earth could get him to admit it out loud, but he kind of missed Q’s presence. The genius had this calming aurora about him when James needed to sleep. But he was alone tonight. Q had to decided to stay the night at his own flat, claiming he didn’t want to wake James up from his much needed sleep whenever he finally got home that night.

 

He rolled onto his back, white sheets wrapped around his naked hips, and sighed. Opening his eyes slowly to stare at the blank ceiling, hoping for some kind of answer to his insomnia.

 

He wished he could take back those words now.

 

The shrill ring of his phone made him jerk in surprise. He rarely got phone calls, especially on his second mobile. Twisting over, grabbed the sleek phone off the nightstand.

 

“Hello?”

 

A female voice, strained, but confident answered. “Hello, is this Mister,” he heard a shuffling of papers – busy and stressed, “…Mister Cartwright?”

 

James almost fell out of bed with how fast he bolted up.

 

“Yes. What’s happened?”

 

“Well Mister Cartwright, I’m Melinda from The Royal London Hospital, and I’m calling you on behalf of an Ira Honeycomb. You’re listed here as one of his emergency contact numbers.”

 

“Yes, I’m aware. _What’s happened_?”

 

“There’s been an incident and we’ll need you to come down as soon as possible.”

 

He was sure he stopped breathing for a second. His mind racing to hundreds of possibilities and just as many solutions for what could’ve happened. Their codenames: John Cartwright and Ira Honeycomb, were given to certain staff and for certain situations, ones that were out of MI6’s control, like random car accidents, heart attacks. They always listed two agents as Emergency Contacts, one of their choosing, the other, a desk-bound, lower level agent who was likely to be available when needed.

 

“ _What_ kind of incident?” he said, making sure to keep his voice strong.

 

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re not allowed to say over the phone. If you’ll please come by the Emergency and Trauma Department as soon as you can, there’s an information desk. They’ll be happy to show you to Mister Honeycomb’s room, where the doctor can further inform you of what’s happened.”

 

He bit the inside of his cheek - thankful no one was around to witness his lack of control.

 

“Alright.”

 

He hung up.

 

His feet dangled over the side of the bed.

 

He felt himself detach, his eyes losing focus as he zoned-out.

 

It had been a while since he had been so unsure.

 

He wanted to go, no – he _needed_ to go and make sure ‘Ira’ was okay. But what if it was a trap? If someone had done this on purpose, to get to him, he might make the situation worse… get someone killed. Get Q killed. But the chance of it being a setup was unlikely too. Only so many people knew the codenames. Most people within MI6 didn’t even know they existed. So what was stopping him from grabbing his keys and going over?

 

He roughly rubbed his head. Why was this becoming such a big deal? He’d been in far worse situations. Hell, he was just in one only days ago.  

 

Fear. That’s what it was.

 

He didn’t want to walk in and see something from one of his missions. Not another dead body at his feet. Not another important person in his life taken away too early.

 

He felt his leg start jiggling, up and down, up and down. Another nervous tick.

 

God, he thought he’s crushed them all out years ago.

 

Fuck.

 

What was this kid doing to him?

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

“Ah, you must be Mister Cartwright? I’m Doctor Devereaux.”

 

An older man with grey hair, smaller than himself, slight shuffling gait: indicating some sort of past injury, at least a year old as he’d learnt to accommodate it.

 

“Yes,” James grabbed the man’s outstretched hand and shook it firmly. “Is Ira alright?”

 

The doctor averted his framed eyes for a split second – recalling something.

 

“Ah, you should come with me sir. I’ll tell you along the way.”

 

James nodded his head and followed the man, side-by-side, as they made their way quietly down the bright white hallway.

 

“How well do you know him, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

He looked at the doctor, unsure of his intentions.

 

“Very well.”

 

Devereaux sighed and nodded his head: acceptance.

 

“Mister Honeycomb will be just fine, sir.” The doctor paused, a look of… internal struggle flashing across his face.

 

“He says… whatever happened to him, was an accident though.”

 

“You don’t believe it to be one?”

 

The doctor sighed and stopped walking. They looked at each other. Each looking for something different: both hoping for the same answer.  

 

“I’m afraid I may be over-stepping my bounds here, but, by the looks of it, I’d say he’s been mugged, and that’s me being- optimistic about the situation.”

 

James remained neutral.

 

“I’m only telling you this because I believe that maybe you could change his mind.” The doctor’s gaze didn’t waiver – not even for a second – he was being serious.

 

“Change his mind about what? Telling the truth?”

 

“Yes. Well, I’d rather he report this to the police. Press charges. It never ends well for anyone who pretends these types of things didn’t happen.”

 

_These types of things._ This guy had no idea who he was dealing with.

 

“I’ll do my best. He’s very stubborn when he wants to be.”

 

The doctor laughed, “Yes, well, all help is appreciated at this point. I’ve seen far too many cases like this: the patient claiming some sort of accident or another, when in reality they were abused or mugged, or God knows what. I just hate incidents like these, especially with someone so young. They’re heartbreaking really.”

 

He nodded his head, trying to appear as sympathetic as possible. He just wanted the doctor to bring him to Q.  

 

They continued walking, only for a few metres, before they reached a closed blue door. A small window showing long, trouser-less legs hanging from a bed, peaking out from behind green curtains.

 

            Devereaux opened the door, announcing their arrival.

 

            He had seen some pretty horrific things in because of this line of work, but nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the impact of seeing Q like this.

 

            He was sure his he stopped breathing as he stared unblinking at the younger man. Everything was wrong. Q… Q _didn’t_ look like this. He didn’t look broken and unsure; he didn’t look like he couldn’t understand the world if you just gave him a computer, pajamas and enough time.

 

“…Hey.”

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

 

They were home now, well, it was technically James’ flat, but Q had laid claim weeks ago, bringing his things and leaving them, ‘conveniently’ forgetting to take them back with him.

 

 

The man himself was currently lying in bed, trying to sleep off the pain meds but having little success. James was behind him, resting on his elbow as he stared down at the younger man.   

 

He carefully reached his hand out and brushed his index finger along the side of Q’s bruised face, mindful of the worst spots. The Quartermaster twitched at the contact, but did nothing else. James could see his eyes moving rapidly beneath eyelids as Q tried to find sleep, just as James had done himself not that long ago.

 

“Are you going to tell me who did this to you?”

 

Rage had been curling up inside him since he’d seen Q. The boy had been beaten - mostly superficial wounds - but wounds nonetheless. His face, mostly on the left, was swollen and horribly bruised. A small nick on his cheekbone now held a butterfly stitch over it while the inside of his bottom lip had needed real wire and needle to keep it together. The rest of him was really no better. He had a cracked rib and two broken fingers to go along with the molten contusions splattered around his body.

 

“It… it was no one, really. I didn’t even know them. Just some bloody idiots who thought they were being cool,” he whispered. His voice careful and controlled, just as his actions had been at the hospital and on his way here.

 

“Had you seen them around before?”

 

A huff followed by a long pause. Q was building himself up.

 

“They hang around I guess. Typical neighbourhood hooligans.”

 

“Hmm….”

 

He rubbed his thumb across the nape of Q’s neck – calming the man down: put him at ease.

 

“Why you?”

 

“…Who knows? We can’t all be super-secret agents, you know.” A small smile found its way onto Q’s lips. The genius had always gotten some weird pleasure from calling him a super-secret agent; a childish sort of quirk that one had a hard time out-growing.

 

            They laid together in silence, the only light coming from the alarm clock and a slit between the curtains. His eyes starting to slip shut against his own accord. He didn’t want to sleep until he was sure Q had already, not wanting to leave the Quartermaster to his own devices.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay? Can’t have MI6 think you’ve gone barmy,” whispered Q. His eyes were shut tight, his face lax with sleepiness.

 

He just kissed the back of Q’s neck: his own little silent protest. He got a content sigh in response, and finally he felt Q fall into the arms of sleep.

 

No one – and he meant it – no one would hurt Q and get away with it. No one.

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

 

If Q saw in the papers a week later, that four wannabe gang members who had a history of petty crimes, had turned themselves in - visibly injured - he didn’t say.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'll be making a series of little moments between 007 and Q. I plan on them being more... fluffy lol :) (just have to think of a name for the series first x))


End file.
